It is twilight.

Through that window, just there, I stand and press my nose against the glass and create little clouds of fog- not my breath, but, the frost of another world.

It is snowing there, for them! And people are walking around with their fingers as stiff as pencils.

But then, then I inhale. The world, my world, is clear. I see bricks and weed and concrete, crawling up like a tumor to meet the sky- purple evaporating into blue, all governed by the master moon.

Tonight he is fat and stern and not to be eaten.
He is not for the cold people.